The Threshold
by AG23746
Summary: An account of the development of Ginny's feelings for Harry from hero worship to love...


**The Threshold**

 **Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, unfortunately. It is the property of J. , undoubtedly, irrevocably, completely… although, the idea and plot of this fanfic is entirely my own and no one else's.**

It had all progressed as something akin to hero worship, you know, the kind of feeling you get when you fancy a celebrity more than the real person behind it all.

And then, it had all changed.

Ginny could still remember the first time she'd admitted to having _that_ feeling, barely breathing it into Hermione's eager ear, sitting at the foot of the bed in the dingy room at the Leaky Cauldron in the summer after her rather horrifying first year. It had seemed a little silly saying it like that even then, like the shady dealings of a well thought out crime, whispering it softly to Hermione. But at the same time, she couldn't say it louder than that, as if saying it soft enough would miraculously make it cease to be true. Which might seem irrational, but she was twelve and feeling completely in love; surely, she was at the liberty to be a wee bit aberrant.

Hermione, being Hermione, had responded to that monumental declaration with the world's most pragmatic question.

'And why do you feel that way?' she'd asked, her chocolate-brown eyes piercing into the depths of the younger girl's soul.

She had pondered the question for but a minute before the answer had readily flowed from her mouth like the gentle flow of a waterfall. It had been the look in his eyes, the stark horror morphing into unveiled relief, like he hadn't _known_ he would be able to save her. And she had fallen for him, hook, line and sinker. It was the way he was covered in slime and mud and blood. The way he seemed dead on his feet, like he was beyond exhausted to even sleep. It was the way, sword in one hand and the basilisk fang in another, he hadn't looked the least bit heroic. It was the moment Ginny had realised that before he was the Boy-Who-Lived, he was just a boy.

Hermione had simply nodded at that, like it was an everyday occurrence to realize that your childhood hero was really just a normal person, and maybe to her it was, but for Ginny, it had been a revelation that changed the course of everything.

After that, it had been like the Golden Glow that surrounded him had melted into nothingness and for the first time, Ginny could see him for who he truly was, and the first thing she'd realised was that he was utterly and truly reckless. Well, he had rushed into the Chamber with only himself and his wand despite knowing that there probably was a giant snake that could kill merely by looking into its victim's eyes, and really, wasn't that playing with fire? The second realisation had barrelled into her when Ron was squeezing the life out of her and she'd noticed that his face had lit up with serene joy. He was stupid and reckless, yes, but only because he would give up the world for a friend.

The next two years had been full of little realizations like these. He had a wry sense of humour. He had very few real friends, but they were immensely close. He always had a kind word for anyone who wasn't rude to him or his friends. He was smart, but not in the easy brilliance sort of way that one associated with a hero, but in a quiet, happy-go-lucky way of a person who didn't mind being just above average. He was observing of his surroundings, but not overly so, and his roaring temper could get the best of him at times. He hated Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape, but not more than the fame he had unwillingly acquired. He never talked about his muggle family ( _family,_ my foot!), never went home for the holidays (except summer, of course, although, even then it was reluctantly) and seemed to consider Hogwarts as his _home._

For every tiny little detail she noticed about him, from the way he'd completely given up on taming his unruly hair, to his favourite desert of treacle tart, he seemed to become more real and concrete and genuine and just overall better than the Boy-Who-Lived could ever hope to be. And yet, there always seemed to be a little, snarky voice in the back of her mind that noticed that he wasn't noticing her.

And it had completely broken her heart into little bleeding pieces of anguish and despair. Hermione had been there when she had broken down into uncontrollable tears because he hadn't asked her to the Yule Ball. She had consoled her and let her cry into her shoulder for longer than she could remember, and had told her to try to move on and meet other people, but above all, to be herself around him. So she'd tried, and even if she said so herself, she thought she had fared rather well.

She'd dated Michael and Dean for a year each, hadn't she? So what if her eyes had strayed over to him more times than she cared to admit? It was alright, because he was her friend. So what if she sometimes compared her boyfriends to him? She was positive it wasn't unusual. So what if she felt an anxious coil of envy in the pit of her stomach when she saw him with Cho and a fierce surge of elation when they broke up? It was no one's business but her own.

And then, she herself had broken up with Dean over a matter so trivial, that she couldn't bring herself to remember what it was, and had ended up collapsed onto her bed in the fifth-years dormitory with the sole thought that no matter what she did – ignored, evaded or disregarded them- her feelings for him would only continue to change and grow and develop over time, just as they had since the moment she'd laid her eyes on the boy.

It had been just under three weeks later when he had kissed her for the first time, in the Gryffindor common room in front of a whole bunch of people, and she'd felt a sweeping wave of _belonging_ settle over her heart. The weeks after that had passed in a blur – spent kissing and holding hands and talking and just being together. Then, the year they'd spent apart – she'd spent the whole time just worrying for his safety and hoping he'd come back to her in one piece and soon. In that entire time, she'd never once doubted that he loved her, there was never any need to.

Even then, there was still a small apart of her that hadn't forgiven him for dying all those years ago on the same night that he'd come back to her, and she'd let him know this by administering a resounding slap to his apologising face, but there was larger part of her that revelled in the way it made each moment spent in each other's arms afterwards just a little sweeter. And there had been a lot of those moments.

They'd talked a lot then, about things that mattered most and even those that didn't matter. Things that needed to be said and even those that didn't. It was during one of those talks that she'd admitted fearfully to him how it had all begun with hero worship, this…this _feeling_ that they shared, and he'd sent one of his knee-buckling lazy half smiles her way and said that of course it had started that way, but it didn't matter. And, she supposed, it didn't, not really.

They sometimes laughed softly at all those sweet and awkward moments that they'd shared… like how Ginny had stuck her elbow in the butter dish and accidentally knocked over a bowl of porridge when he had turned up for breakfast the first time he'd visited The Burrow or how he'd been insanely jealous of Dean when he and Ron had walked in on them snogging and then worried about Ron's reaction if he were to find out his best friend fancied his little sister.

And now, as she gazed at the startling emerald-green eyes of his, surrounded by smiling faces of all their loved ones, the tears in her mother's eyes, stifling her giggle at the Hogwarts toilet seat that George had presented to them as a pre-wedding gift and fulfilment of a promise to her from himself and Fred and the love that exudes from her soon-to-be husband, she knows that they were always meant to be. As they say their vows, promising to be together forever and she becomes Mrs. Potter before they share a passionate kiss, she wonders, what else could possibly matter?

…

 **The end!**


End file.
